Morocco

Upon entering Morocco, one immediately notices that things are different.

First, there was the dolphin greeting. Yes, we had had dolphin escorts before, most notably upon arrival at La Coruña. But dolphin sightings have been few and far between, so seeing them as we entered Moroccan waters was unusual. And there weren’t just a few. A welcoming committee of at least one hundred shot at us like torpedoes, Luna shrieking with joy as they bobbed and weaved across our bow.

Then there was the calmness. Crossing the Straits hadn’t been quite as sporty as our initial transit, but nearly so, with 25-knot winds on our beam and one-and-a-half meter waves, plus the chaotic currents. All this quickly disappeared upon rounding Punta de Juan Gomez into Morocco. The seas flattened, the wind abated, and the atmosphere relaxed. We were in a new dimension.

And, of course, the people and the language were entirely different from Europe. This was Africa. A place cloaked in mystery since time immemorial.

I was slightly nervous as I approached the marina reception desk. This was my first contact with an Arab in their native land, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Perhaps sensing my unease, an attractive Arab woman in Western dress greeted me in English and started me through the registration paperwork. Despite her reassuring manner, my antenna tingled when she sent me unescorted to the Immigration Office three doors down. I exercised rusty French in answering the agent’s questions – Where are you coming from? What is the purpose of your visit? How long is your stay? Where are you going next? Satisfied, he stamped my passport into the Moroccan immigration system. All seemed routine, but the tingling proved prescient.

Just 30 miles from Gibraltar, Marina Smir seemed the perfect spot to leave Windleblo while we explored Morocco. Their website promised a clean, secure facility with all the necessary amenities. My first impression, though, was of an oily, hot, asphalt laden place with little to deter a thief. The dock hands were friendly enough, but the language barrier prevented any real helpfulness beyond tying up the boat. I eventually found Mohammed, the major domo of the docks, who spoke enough English to answer my questions, but by then the first impression was made.

After settling in, I took a stroll on shore. A picturesque beach extended several miles to the south, moderately thick with Moroccan sun bathers, most in Western swimwear. A few women were covered from head to toe. Tended by a handler, a camel stood waiting to give rides to tourists. Lining the beach were an upscale hotel and several restaurants and cafes. Alcohol was being served. A sign in English advertised big screen TV for the Euro Cup final between Spain and Italy later that evening. Marina Smir, it seemed, catered to European visitors and Moroccan vacationers desiring a Western atmosphere.

I walked down the gated access road toward the main highway to see if a grocery store, ATM, or taxi stand were nearby.  I found an ATM, but as I arrived a gentleman walking away from it announced, “Ca ne marche pas.” The ATM, it seemed, was on the fritz. We would have no Dirhams, the Moroccan currency, today. Taxis were plentiful, but the grocery store offered a very limited selection.

We spent the next day on boat chores – cleaning inside and out, plus an oil change. As we labored, a Danish couple approached us and invited us for a drink later on their yacht, a Southerly 38 named Troldand. Over cocktails, we learned that Sten was a retired University of Copenhagen geography professor and Rosemarie had been a transportation planner. Their cruising formula involved selecting a destination and spending at least a month there interspersing land excursions with boating. They had spent the past winter at a marina in Seville and were just starting their month-long exploration of Morocco. They would return to Copenhagen for the month of August, though, to escape the crowds and heat. As we walked back to our boat, Jocelyn asked, “Why can’t we go that slowly?” I didn’t have a ready answer.

Tuesday morning, we locked up the boat and took a taxi to Tetouan, a town of 300,000 about 15 kilometers inland. Here, we would transfer to a bus to Chefchaouen, a smaller town 100 kilometers south in the Rif Mountains. Chefchaouen had been recommended to us by friends as an undiscovered gem offering a priceless glimpse into Moroccan life. We would spend the rest of the week there absorbing the culture and exploring the town and surrounding mountains.

The bus terminal at Tetouan was so loud and chaotic, we opted to continue on by taxi, which we were surprised to find cost only 300 Dirhams, about $35. Wandering away from the taxi stop upon arrival in Chefchaouen, we must have looked like easy marks, white tourists each with backpack and handbag. Instantly, a man appeared offering to help us find our way. Several others hovered nearby ready to step in if his advances failed. Somewhat unsettled, we told him we didn’t need any help, even though we were unsure which way to go. Undeterred, he started leading us toward a hotel in the medina, or old town, which he said would be very, very comfortable.

As we had no reservation anywhere and wanted to see the medina anyway, we allowed him to lead us on. He took a position about five paces ahead of us, clearing a path through the narrow lanes crowded with people. He led us through the medina to a simple hostel where we inspected a room and rejected it. At first, our communication was limited. But as we walked, we started to converse more easily, sometimes in French, sometimes English.

I asked him why he was helping us. He replied that it was his way of helping the entire community, which was like one big, happy family. He seemed to say that he was related in one way or another to the proprietors of every one of the hotels that we would see and that by showing us there his “cousins” would appreciate him. By the time we left Chefchaouen, we had heard this refrain from many of the business people there.

He led us to two or three other guesthouses and we finally settled on an exquisite riad located at the highest corner of the medina. Called Dar Mezziana, the entry was up some steps at the end of a long, narrow walkway. All the walls and doorways along this walkway were painted in varying shades of pastel blue as was much of the rest of the medina. The exterior painting signifies the degree of cleanliness of the interior spaces. At regular intervals, residents clean the inside of their home, then refresh the exterior paint. The pastel blue has become a signature feature of the town.

Chefchaouen Blue

From the balcony of our third floor room we looked out over the entire medina. From here, we could see the red tiles rooftops around the city, many with laundry hung out to dry, and hear the roosters crowing in the morning and the calls to prayer three times a day. We took advantage of the in-room air conditioner to cut the oppressive daytime heat.

View from Riad Balcony at Dawn, Roosters Crowing

Chefchaouen Market Day

More Market Day

Chefchaouen Launderette

Medina Street

Products for Sale in the Medina

More Products

Our proprietor, Morad, had lived in Chefchaouen all his life and so knew the place well. He described several options to occupy our time. The one that caught our fancy was to experience an authentic Moroccan hammam. A private hammam was located right on the premises. We scheduled a session for the next day.

A hammam is like nothing you’ve experienced before. Not quite a steam bath or sauna, and not exactly a massage, a hammam is like a having a professional body scrubber assisting you with your bath. Strictly segregated, Luna and Jocelyn were served by a female attendant, and I was helped by a male. The hammam is a room with several wash basins and heating coils placed in the tiled walls and floor. The attendant prepares the room by heating it to about 90 degrees Fahrenheit and drawing warm water. A mat is then placed on the floor for you to lie on. The attendant proceeds to massage and scrub you from head to toe, being scrupulous to avoid private parts, alternating different kinds of soaps and emollients with plenty of rinsing to deep clean your body. The process takes an hour and offers ample interludes for relaxation and meditation. In the end, you feel cleaner than you ever have in your life.

The next day, while the girls explored town I explored the mountains. Behind Chefchaouen, Jebel el Kelaa looms at 1,616 meters. That would be my destination. At first, I climbed up an established trail through a narrow slot between cliffs, emerging on a ridge top to view into the next valley. A dirt road led up this valley toward the peak. I descended a rough trail to the road and began ascending again. As I went, it became obvious that I was walking through a vast field cultivated in marijuana. Here and there, sprinklers were distributing water funneled through hoses from slopes higher up. I walked for several miles through these fields, which surrounded two simple huts. I waved hello to the one worker I saw tending a sprinkler. Other than this worker and a shepherd lower down, I had seen no one else on the trail.


The Fields

The Product

Once beyond the reefer fields, I trudged up toward the summit. At a high col, the road descended down the other side. As I left the road to begin the final assault on the peak, I encountered a group of about 15 young Moroccan men doing some sort of work. People being scarce up here, they were as surprised to see me as I was to see them. A spokesperson was appointed and I conversed with him in French. They were part of a sort of WPA organized by a government-related society to put unemployed young men to work. Their job was to clear a designated area of boulders for use as building materials. A truck would come before sunset to take them to their camp some 20 kilometers away.

The Way Up - Lower Elevation Trail

Halfway Up Looking Back

Medina From Above

Summit View

After bagging the peak, I started the long, dusty descent back to Chefchaouen. As I was absent-mindedly trekking along, a scruffy bearded character appeared out of nowhere. Startled, I greeted him with an automatic, “Bonjour. Ca va?” He replied, “Ca va bien,” and proceeded to take up a position a few paces behind me, saying nothing more. Paranoid, I found a reason to tie my shoe, and he continued on ahead. I followed along, and after about a kilometer we stopped at a spring just above the reefer fields.

Here, he reached into the plastic shopping sack he was carrying and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in plastic. He opened it up and said, “Voudriez vous de kief?” He was offering me some marijuana. We talked. I learned that his name was Khalil and that he lived in one of the shacks at the center of the marijuana fields with his dog and his woman. He showed me two other sacks with kief and hash and said I could have some if I wanted. When I said how much, he said, “vingt dirhams,” the equivalent in Moroccan currency about $2.50. I thanked him for the offer and explained that as a tourist I couldn’t take the risk of having any marijuana with me. (I was recalling Sten’s story about the Customs dogs sniffing through his boat.) As we passed his house, Khalil wished me well and left. An hour and a half later I returned to our hotel, exhausted and ravenous but with a story to tell.

Khalil's Place

That evening, we enjoyed a traditional dinner of chicken tagine and couscous washed down by sweet mint tea on a terrace restaurant overlooking the Kasbah. Our time in Chefchaouen was nearing an end. Tomorrow, we would take a taxi back through Tetouan to return to Marina Smir and Windleblo. We would leave the Rif Mountains having had a memorable, thoroughly unique experience.

Moroccan Tagine & Couscous

The Kasbah

We found the boat where we had left it, unmolested. After one more night under Moroccan stars, we awoke to cloudless skies and fair breezes to take Windleblo back to Spain. We left our berth and stopped at the marina reception dock for exit formalities. Again, the pleasant marina receptionist guided me through the paperwork and sent me to Immigration. But this time was not routine.

When the agent called up my case on his computer, a notice in red font declared me, “Duane Contentieux.” Something was amiss. My Customs paperwork had not cleared. The agent started asking me where my car was, insisting that I had come through Cueta, a Spanish protectorate on Morocco’s northern tip. I advised him that I had come by boat directly from Gibraltar. A rapid fire exchange in Arabic followed between him and one of his colleagues and then the marina receptionist. A few curt phone calls were made, again all in Arabic. I was sent back to the boat to wait.

My mind raced with the possible outcomes. This being a Sunday, it seemed certain we would at least have to remain in the country overnight so things could be sorted out Monday morning. But perhaps a worse fate waited. Would we have to pay a steep baksheesh in order to leave the country? Would I be accused of drug smuggling and carted off to Moroccan prison?

Anticlimactically, the agent approached the boat within an hour and simply handed back our passports, complete with exit stamps, and waved us away, wishing us, “Bon Voyage,” as he did so. We were off to Spain.